


Falling In Love In A Coffee Shop

by caffeineivore



Series: Starbucks [2]
Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 01:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17335760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineivore/pseuds/caffeineivore
Summary: The sequel-of-sorts to Starbucks: A fabulous destination wedding in Hawaii finds our gang in the land of Aloha. Takes place where the epilogue leaves off. The DVD Extras, if you will.





	Falling In Love In A Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is AU and will probably only make sense if one reads Starbucks first, which was written for the ssminibang challenge last year. It's primarily to tie up a few loose ends, and perhaps just show another snapshot of those characters-- several months later.

Shane is an impulse packer.

This doesn’t surprise Annette, not really, if she thinks about it. She is reasonably certain that he has Noel to thank for ensuring that he was pre-checked in the night before and all important documentation (Boarding pass, passport, hotel reservations and the like) were neatly packed and yet easily accessible in the front pocket of his book-bag in an envelope next to his wallet. There’s also toiletries packed into a plastic baggie as per TSA specifications. But there are also three rather random books, three different chargers but only one cell phone, and the music score for the wedding tucked cheek by jowl next to two concertos (one his own, one Tchaikovsky) and a box of Dramamine. There are no headphones, no pens, no travel pillow or sweatshirt or anything to aid airplane travel comfort to be found in his carry-on, and he spends the first bit of the flight huddled under the scratchy airline-issued blanket, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the tray table, shivering just a bit under the long-sleeved band t-shirt he’s wearing. 

Annette, who is wearing a cozy cardigan over a short-sleeved blouse in a nod to Hawaii’s warmer climes, and whose bags were not only packed meticulously by list but tagged with sensible yet easily-visible matching tags for easy sighting on the baggage claim belt, smiles at the flight attendant rolling the beverage cart down the aisle and pauses the Sudoku game she’s playing on the airplane seat console. A quiet exchange of words and a credit card later, and she’s sliding a somewhat overpriced but reasonably filling fruit and cheese assortment towards Shane’s tray table. His gaze snaps up, startled green eyes meeting her blue ones, and she smiles. 

“Eat something. You have a bad habit of skipping out on breakfast and we still have many hours before we land.”

The flight attendant, customer service smile in place, then asks both of them their drink selections. Annette requests bottled water, and gently suggests ginger ale to Shane to settle his stomach. She leaves after filling their drinks and passing along single-serve bags of Biscoff cookies, and Annette is a bit surprised to feel the warmth of long, fine-boned fingers laying over hers, just a moment too long for a casual touch. It’s just hand on hand contact, but something in Shane’s gaze-- something familiar and yet new, diffident yet intense-- makes her blush. 

He’d been quite casual, asking her to come, for “moral support”, to this wedding. It’s a big deal for him-- a commission not only for money but for publicity, and the fact that all expenses aside from airfare are paid for himself and a plus-one is a huge plus, of course. She’d agreed, and wonders, at times, if this signifies some sort of change in their relationship. They’re certainly friends-- close friends, at that, who feel comfortable enough around each other to talk about anything and everything that crosses their minds, who bring out the best in each other, and inspire each other towards ever-greater heights. And if she feels his eyes on her when she’s not looking directly at him-- and if he likes to curl up on the couch with his head in her lap and her fingers carding through his incredibly, ridiculously soft and silky hair-- that’s just another, slightly nerve-wracking quirk in a relationship which has come to matter very much to her. Annette knows what being someone’s “plus-one” generally entails, especially at a gorgeous destination wedding such as this. But she is still unsure if Shane _means_ for her to fill that role. This is one topic that they have skirted, vaguely and distantly, and yet never touched upon.

The very thought of it unleashes a score of butterflies in her stomach, yet doesn’t scare her quite as much as she would’ve thought. She’d not make mention of it, though, unless he gives her a clear idea of intent. She turns back to her Sudoku game, and feels his eyes glance over at her every few minutes, his gaze almost palpably warm on her skin.

***

The flight lands in the Daniel K Inouye International Airport at around half-past four, local time, but with the time difference, Rebecca is fairly exhausted by the time the airport shuttle pulls up to the lobby of the Hyatt Regency on Waikiki Beach. She lets Jordan handle the niceties of calling in to Melia-- not to mention his family-- that they’ve made it to Hawaii in one piece, opting to take a long shower in an effort to ward off the worst of the jet lag rather than succumb to a nap, then takes the time to carefully unpack her bags. 

The hotel is fairly typical of a luxury beachfront resort, and their room comes with a balcony view of white sand and blue Pacific and green palm trees. The immaculately white linens on the king-sized bed and the slick amenities echo the well-appointed lobby downstairs with its impeccably polite concierge at the front desk. Outside, the weather is a good forty-some degrees warmer than what they’d left behind on the East Coast, and she changes into a casual sundress for dinner as Jordan takes his turn in the shower. Almost without thinking, she unpacks his bags as well; re-folding his shirts and trousers and carefully hanging up his tuxedo in its garment bag, plugging his phone into the charging station on the desk next to hers. In typical guy fashion, he didn’t bring too much by way of toiletries, but what he does have, she puts up neatly on the sink console outside the bathroom, and makes a mental note to find a nearby drugstore within the next day or two-- of all things, he’d forgotten to pack sunglasses. 

Their relationship had been progressing at a steady rate since she’d first kissed him, a bit scared and more than a little bit smitten, after Thanksgiving dinner at her father’s house. They didn’t quite date in the typical sense of dinners and movies and outings, but rather it became an unspoken agreement that he’d pick her up after her shifts at the law firm, and drive her back to campus. Sometimes they’d pick up some take-out on their way back, or a bottle of wine. They’d talk during the drive, getting to know each other better in a low-key way away from other people. He never seemed to tire of listening to her, even when she didn’t particularly feel like talking. They’d gone to her father’s again for Christmas-- this time sans all the extra snotty colleague types-- and he’d given her a cheeky grin when he’d handed her her Christmas present on Christmas Eve before turning in for the night in the guest bedroom down the hall from her room. The box had not been of the size and shape for any of the typical type presents-- clothing or accessories or jewelry or bath and body type stuff. Incredibly curious, she’d opened it a few minutes after midnight, and almost dropped it in shock. It was a gift set with a tin of Matcha, a traditional chasen and chakasu and chawan boxed in a neat little caddy, straight from Japan. He hadn’t included a card, but there was a note, scrawled in the same handwriting as her name written on any number of Starbucks cups. “The parents went to Okinawa for the holidays. Had them express-mail this, just so we can go full circle.” 

She’d snuck into his room around one in the morning, an act rather incredibly bold and audacious for her, in her father’s house. It had not been the first time they’d slept together, but certainly the first time they’d done so in a strange bed, neither his nor hers. She should have been more nervous about sneaking around, getting caught, or potentially doing the Walk of Shame back to her own room later on, but Jordan had a way of disarming her from her doubts and her own mind without even talking it through. 

The next day, after they’d gone through the hoopla of opening presents and a late brunch, she’d taught him the proper way to make matcha. It was a far cry from whatever went into making a Starbucks green tea latte, but he didn’t seem to mind in the least. 

The bathroom door opens, and Jordan steps out, blond hair slightly darkened with the damp, smelling pleasantly of hotel soap, tattooed arms colourfully exposed in a blue cotton t-shirt. “Want to grab some dinner? The Poke in the hotel restaurant has some rave reviews online.” 

“Okay.” She’s not super hungry, but it’s still a bit too early to turn in, and Poke isn’t such a heavy meal that she’d feel lethargic and uncomfortable afterwards. They spend a leisurely hour or so at dinner, then follow it up with a walk on the beach, which is glorious at sunset, gold and purple and scarlet on the horizon, glowing against the water. By the time they return to the hotel room, it’s approaching 9pm local time, and she’s stifling yawns against his shoulder. 

He doesn’t mind slowing his stride to match her shorter one, or letting her have the bathroom first when they get back in, though soon enough, he joins her in bed, arms gently wrapping around her from behind. She’d turned down all the lights but the one in the bathroom, but even in the dark, she can make out the markings on his arms. Idly, she traces her fingernails over the curves of Lady Liberty’s face and crown. He’d most likely get another tattoo sometime in the near future, commemorating Hawaii. Though, she thinks sleepily, tracing her way up his arms, he’s almost running out of room. The ink on both arms goes almost up to his shoulders. 

“I love you.”

The words are quietly whispered against the nape of her neck, but they shatter the air halfway breathed into her lungs with the force of a gunshot. She turns so that she’s facing him, eyes wide and wild in the darkness, breath stuttering against his face.

“W-what did you just say?”

He pauses, too, but his eyes are dark blue and steadfast as the eternal ocean outside as they meet her petrified gaze head-on. He’s never been less than honest with her, and she has absolutely no reason to think that he’d prevaricate now. “I love you, Becky. That’s what I said.”

Whatever words were on the tip of her tongue stutter to a halt. He says it so easily, so evenly, as though it’s no more shocking or difficult than the sun rising and setting every day. She knows she must say _something_. He certainly deserves more than half-panicked stuttering, but she can’t seem to make her tongue work right.

“I… but you…”

Somehow, even now, he manages a smile that smooths over her frazzled nerves like a warm caress. “It’s okay, Becky. You don’t have to say or do anything, all right?”

“But…”

His next breath exhales in what almost sounds like a chuckle, a bit sleepy. “I love you, Becky. I just want you to know. But in case it’s not clear, that doesn’t mean that you owe me anything, all right? C’mere.” He curls up, wrapping his arms around her again as though he didn’t just make an incredibly monumental declaration to her, and closes his eyes. 

Somehow, though she’d been battling sleepiness for the last few hours, she lies awake for a long time after Jordan’s breath has evened out in sleep. She lies in the loose circle of his arms, staring into his peaceful, familiar face, taking in every detail as though she hasn’t already memorized them without even ever planning to. The terrifying L word could mean everlasting happiness, or the beginning of an agonizing end. Suddenly, despite the warmth of the room and the weather, she shivers, and pulls the covers up all the way even as she buries her face in his neck and wraps her own arms around him, so close that he’d probably wake up in the morning spitting out a mouthful of her hair. 

“Please don’t leave me. Please don’t ever break my heart.” The words are whispered against his skin too softly for him to hear, even if he were awake. It’s a moment of weakness that thankfully no one will ever know about. She’s quite sure he’s asleep and doesn’t hear her, either, but even so, he pulls her closer, and gradually, she lets the steady thump of his heartbeat under her cheek lull her to sleep. 

***

“Cammy! Look, our baby’s on Facetime! Awww, he’s batting his paw at us! You miss Mommy, don’t you, Arty? Yes you do! Yes you do!”

The statement is, of course, patently ridiculous, but it’s no less than Cameron expects out of his girlfriend of three months, and he stifles a chuckle before poking his head out of the en-suite bathroom of their hotel room. Maralynn is seated cross-legged on the bed, wearing a pretty, floral-patterned sundress of splashy red poppies and yellow sunflowers on cream-coloured muslin, her golden hair tied back with a bit of red ribbon, and her eyes are shining with infectious happiness as she waves him over.

He acquiesces, but makes a point to roll his eyes at her before seating himself on the other side of the bed. “Artemis. Hope you’re behaving yourself at Melia’s house,” he addresses the cat, feeling like a complete idiot at the formality of his words and the object of this conversation. 

“He’s not,” Melia’s voice comes in from a point above said cat’s head. “He’s scratched up three pieces of furniture, made off with my dinner the other night, and pulled a roll of toilet paper from the dispenser in the bathroom all the way to the door.” The cat seems supremely unconcerned at these accusations, with the blank-faced nonchalance of a career criminal facing his accusers in court. 

Maralynn seems as though she’s ready to make excuses for her cat, and weirdly, Cameron finds himself drawn into the conversation. “You’re going to have to behave yourself better than that,” he says to the cat, stern lawyer voice in place. “It does not behoove you to conduct yourself in this manner when I know you know better. You’ve even, finally, stopped shedding on everything I own, so clearly you’re capable of learning right from wrong.” The cat’s sullen green eyes meet his own, and if cats could huff, that one would be doing so, like a resentful teenager who just got grounded. So, instead, he turns to Melia, all politeness. “I hope you and Noel are doing well over there, aside from the cat’s antics.”

“We’re fine,” Melia’s face now slides into view, friendly smile in place as she lifts the cat out of her lap. “I do envy you guys the warm weather, of course.”

“I’d bring you a coconut palm if I could,” Maralynn says to her friend as her chin finds a spot on his shoulder. It’s a casual, easy gesture of affection that he finds himself getting used to with rather alarming ease. Silky hair that smells like summer flowers brush against his cheek. “But we should probably let you go. It’s like dead of night over there right now, isn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Melia says dryly. “Be good, Maralynn. I know I don’t have to ask Cameron to be good because he’s not the type to misbehave, so I’ll just ask him to keep you out of trouble, since you are such a troublemaker. Talk to you soon.” 

Melia signs off, and Maralynn lets out a gusty sigh even as she sets her iPad back onto the nightstand and flops backwards onto the bed, somehow still managing to look graceful even with her hair flying in all directions. “I am _not_ a troublemaker. I don’t know what Melia is talking about.”

“I plead the Fifth,” Cameron says dryly even as he kicks off his shoes and lies down next to her. She curls onto her side, and cuddles close to him, her breath warm against his neck. “I feel as though Melia has her reasons for giving that particular admonishment, however.”

“Only you would actually be using the word ‘admonishment’ in a sentence in real life. Why do I find that sexy, though?” The words are muttered against his skin, and a moment later, he feels the faint scrape of manicured fingernails against his chest, through the thin material of his shirt. “You’re _so_ difficult to deal with when you get into Scary Lawyer Mode.”

“I would like to state for the record that you went to the court to watch the closing statements of _State vs Chase_ of your own volition.”

“Mm-hmm. And then what happened, after?” 

He conceals a chuckle against her soft hair as he presses a light kiss to her temple. The workload on the fraud case he’d been prosecuting when they’d started dating had picked up exponentially about a month later, and there was more than one night that she’d half-bullied, half-cajoled him into going to bed after finding him up at all hours, burning the midnight oil. He hadn’t told her too much about the trial or the victims he was representing due to client confidentiality, but she’d taken it upon herself to make the acquaintance of Dora Sanchez and her grandson, Charlie. He’d come out of his office the evening before closing statements to find her and Charlie in the lobby, rehearsing college application interviews, her fussing over the slightly starstruck teen like an affectionate older sister. It had been stupidly touching.

The next day, she’d been in the courtroom watching him and the defense attorney give out their closing statements. If he had been slightly more merciless with his words to the perpetrator-- perhaps even a bit theatrical-- than usual, he could only attribute it to her presence in the back of the courtroom, all golden hair and shining eyes. 

That night, neither of them had gotten much sleep. The following morning, Cameron was fairly sure that she’d chosen a high-necked top to hide a hickey, and he quite suspected that he might have outright grinned at Melia when he’d stopped in at Starbucks (a tradition, now) for coffee. Melia had tactfully not said anything, of course. 

It had been startling how quickly and easily he had adapted to having her in his life, his space. She could be a whirlwind of colourful chaos in public, with candy-coloured nails and quirky pop culture references and a seemingly endless supply of fetching little outfits, but she was surprisingly easy to live with, affectionate and considerate at the oddest of moments, surprisingly responsible and tidy with her work and her belongings. Even the innocuously white and fluffy cat of hers had warmed up to him after a while, though Artemis had certainly spent the first few weeks of their acquaintance deliberately and with malice aforethought shedding over his suit jackets with a single-minded assiduousness more often seen in organized serial killers. 

They’d spent Christmas with his family in Connecticut-- his mother had extended a slightly curious and more-than-slightly imperious invitation after hearing through the grapevine that he was seeing somebody, and he had been concerned at first on how his sharp-eyed, old-money New England relatives would take to this saucy interloper in their midst. But perhaps he shouldn’t have worried. Within a few hours, Eleanor Charrington-Hayes was seated on the couch in an attitude far more casual and relaxed than Cameron had ever seen his dignified mother, telling Maralynn any number of embarrassing stories about his own not-terribly-misspent youth, lulled by sunny smiles and insidiously genuine charm. 

“You know, Cammy, I think Arty misses you, too,” Maralynn declares even as she nestles closer to him on the bed, blue eyes limpid and mischievous as they stare up into his face. “Don’t let his too-cool-for-school attitude fool you. He was a stray, you know. Probably a reformed gangster type. Too used to these mean streets to wear his heart on his sleeve and all that, but you’re totally a good influence and if he wouldn’t lose all kinds of street cred for it, he’d totally admit that you are an inspiration for him to break out of the cycle of poverty and crime and ignorance.”

It’s a testament to how alarmingly deep his feelings for her truly run that he finds it in himself to do no more than laugh and tug her close at this preposterous speculation. “You’re making him sound like a troubled youth from the inner city who lives out in the projects.”

“That was his life! I found him as a kitten on my way to school one day! He looked like something the-- er-- cat dragged in! Do you really think he was _always_ so clean and fluffy?”

“He could stand to be a _little_ less fluffy. My dry-cleaning bill would be thankful,” Cameron intones drolly. He tries to keep a straight face, he truly does, but his woman is a mirthful, bubbly, irreverent ray of sunshine and just at that moment, she’s leaning just so over him, golden fairy-princess hair falling in a fragrant curtain over her bare shoulders, lips soft and sweet and unpainted just a tug away from his own. He pulls her in, swallows a giggle, then a moan, with his own mouth. 

Within just a few minutes, she’s on her back and they break away from kissing just long enough for her to pull that flowery sundress up and over her head. She’s always pretty and put-together on her social media, in her countless cute little outfits and a truly mind-boggling amount of different makeup looks, but here and now, wearing nothing but dappled sunlight on her skin and a smile just for him, she’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He lifts his head from her skin to meet her gaze, holds just a moment before pushing in. 

“I love you.” 

He said this to her before, that night after the trial, the first time they’d made love. And like then, she lifts up her hand, tugs him down for another kiss, whispers it back against his mouth. Her breath shudders when he begins to move, and there are no more words for quite a while. 

Quite a while later, she’s shaking his shoulder just as he’s drifting off into a very well-sated nap. He opens one eye to see that she’s back in that sundress, hair up and no longer mussed. She has the glow of a very well-satisfied woman, and an irrepressible smile on her face. 

“The sun’s setting outside, and it’s gorgeous! Want to take a walk on the beach with me so I can take a gazillion more pictures?”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?” His tone is dry as dust, but he returns her smile with one of his own. 

***

The hotel boasts an outdoor pool and whirlpool complete with cabanas available for rental, and so it was that while Shane was off practicing in one of the ballrooms that evening, Annette decides to use that alone-time to do a few laps.

It’s an hour before the pool is set to close, and most of the hotel guests are nowhere to be found-- either enjoying a late dinner or perhaps taking in the nightlife. This suits Annette just fine, though, as she dives in from the deep end and cuts through the water with clean, economical strokes. She’d been the captain of her high school’s swim team when she’d graduated at sixteen, and it’s an activity that she hadn’t quite realized how much she’d missed-- between the workload of med school and the inclement weather of an East Coast winter. She’s an indeterminate number of laps in when she realizes that a vaguely familiar figure is seated at the end of her lane, watching her progress with some interest. 

“Impressive. Based on my estimations, you’d probably run about a minute ten for a 100 meter freestyle in a swim race.” The woman who speaks just as Annette breaks through the water at the end of the lane is elegant and poised, wavy hair pulled away from a lovely face. Annette belatedly recognizes her as Professor Kyne-- bride-to-be and Shane’s mentor in the music department. She looks completely at home here, wearing a utilitarian teal one-piece that shows off toned arms and shoulders. 

“My best recorded time was 1:08:38, senior year of high school, so you’re uncannily accurate,” Annette smiles diffidently. “I haven’t done any competitive swimming in ages, though, so I’m surely out of practice.”

“Oh, nonsense. There are professional swimmers who’d be envious of your speed and form, my dear.” Meara Kyne swings her legs into the water, somehow making the gesture look graceful. “You’re Shane’s friend. I remember you.”

“Annette Martin. I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced.” A break seemed well in order, and so she pulls herself out of the pool and shakes the other woman’s hand. 

“Meara Kyne, and it’s a pleasure.” The hand which grasps hers is fine-boned and beautifully shaped, yet surprisingly rough at the fingertips. Annette belatedly remembers that the bride-to-be is a world-famous violinist, which certainly explains the calluses. Not the interest in swimming, though, or why she might be out here, alone. An enigmatic smile crosses Meara’s striking face. “I used to swim, too. Went all-state, then to nationals, in high school. I chose to pursue a greater love, though, with music.”

She says it so casually, as though it’s completely natural and normal and not at all extraordinary that one single person would be so talented. It gives Annette pause, but then again-- like mentor, like protegé. “Shane’s incredibly talented,” she blurts out, apropos of nothing. 

“He is, indeed,” Meara murmurs, giving Annette a long, appraising look. “He seems to have found his center, perhaps. His playing has never been better in the last five years that I’ve known him.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that, and the chance you’re giving him here.” Though Annette is certain that Shane himself has thanked his professor for the opportunities afforded him in this commission, it seems right for her to do so, as well. As though they were-- well, perhaps a team. “This will certainly give him some publicity, and perhaps open some doors that were unavailable to him before.”

“Yes.” Meara is succinct, almost inexorable as she utters that single word. “He will also have to make a choice, I daresay, before the week is up.” That enigmatic smile, again. Why it seems almost ominous now, though, Annette casts up to a trick of the light. “We shall have to wait and see. Now, want to race? I’ll let you pick the length and the stroke.”

Maybe it’s the older woman’s complete aplomb and poise. Or maybe it’s the somewhat portentous and yet familiar way she speaks about Shane. Annette, who can’t remember the last time she was personally offended and who’d sooner concede a point she didn’t truly believe in rather than indulge in confrontation, finds herself weirdly rubbed the wrong way, as it were. She raises her chin, sharp blue eyes meeting fathomless turquoise ones. “Let’s go with that 100 meter freestyle, then.”

Meara has a few brief words with one of the lifeguards on duty, who agrees to time them, and moments later, they’re off. Annette, fueled by a strange sense of foreboding and feeling oddly as though she’s soon to be fighting for her very life, pushes herself as though she’s back on a competitive team, completely ignoring the burn of her muscles as she cuts through the water. 

She slaps the edge of the pool for that last time a split-second before Meara does, and the lifeguard’s voice seems to come from far far away, calling out her time. “1:07:52. Niiice.” It’s the fastest she’s ever swam in her life. He adds an appreciative low whistle at the end that barely registers in Annette’s conscious.

She does, however, see Meara break into an approving sort of smile the next lane over, and hasn’t any idea why.

After a long, hot shower which soothes her aching limbs but does nothing to mitigate her confusion, Annette walks back into the hotel. A quick check of the ballroom where Shane had been practicing reveals that he is still there. What’s more, he isn’t alone. There’s a sharply-dressed man in a suit definitely more rock star than stodgy listening to him play. He doesn’t give Annette more than a passing glance when she walks in, but Shane seems to sense, intuitively, that she’s there, even though his eyes are fixed upon the piano keys. The music crescendos as his fingers accelerate in a glad burst of grace notes and glissandos. The piece he’s playing is familiar now; it’s the same concerto he’d written for his comp final last year before graduating with honours. Across the room, just for a moment, he glances up, and smiles. 

She smiles back, almost forgetting about the other man in the room until she hears him clear his throat. “Well, then, you must be the muse. Every true artist has one.”

He has a posh British accent and is careful to tone his voice lower than the music so as to not disturb Shane’s playing. Annette glances at him, askance. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come now. It is the truth for all art, all genres. In literature, Dante had his Beatrice, Petrarch had his Laura. In art, Dalí had his Gala, Klimt had his Emilie. Certainly in music, too, we know of Schumann and Clara, Beethoven and his Immortal Beloved.” A queer, slightly sardonic smile crosses his lips. “Oh, how rude of me. I am Maxwell Wise, a music producer for London Records.”

“Oh, nice to meet you. I’m Annette Martin, a friend of Shane’s.” The hand which clasps hers is cold and adorned with a diamond-studded pinky ring. She lets go after a moment to glance at Shane again. He did always look his best when playing, almost lit from within. 

“He’s brilliant. I certainly had my doubts when darling Meara told me that she was bringing in a virtual unknown to play for her own wedding-- even for kindness’ sake-- when she could have booked any number of famous artists who would have been happy to do it as nothing more than a favour for an old friend. But, of course, darling Meara is never wrong.” A gusty sigh escapes the man. “I do so wish that she’d stayed in the professional circuit. She was one of my favourite artists to work with. But there are always talented newcomers in this game. Why, just last year we signed on The Starlights-- who were playing in tube stations at the time, or for peanuts at dives-- and look at them now! Your Shane might well be the next big thing.”

Annette suddenly understands why Shane wanted “moral support” on this trip, only all too well. On the one hand, she could certainly envision him as a star of the caliber alluded to by the music producer-- between his talent and wit and that beautiful fallen-angel face, Shane could be out in front of crowds of screaming fans, famous and wealthy, breaking any number of susceptible hearts. 

And there’d be no more quiet moments between them-- soft dead-of-night conversations, or chess games, or movies to fall asleep to, or him playing something lush and melancholy in the background as she studied, gentle lovely music soft as a caress. But he might be happy, yet. She couldn’t make that decision for him, either way.

A part of her, aching deep inside her chest, rebels at that moment. Perhaps it was not her decision, but for now… She raises her chin, despite knowing very well that he might see the sudden unshed tears stinging her burning eyes, walks towards the piano as Shane plays the final notes. 

“Hey. Have you eaten yet? It’s quite late, but…”

“No, I haven’t. I forgot.” Shane gives her a self-deprecating smile as he stands. Just like her, earlier, he doesn’t seem to pay much notice to the music producer’s presence in the room. “How late is the hotel restaurant open?”

“We’re about to find out. Come on.” She helps him gather up his music, and it’s a sign of how close they’ve become that she can put the sheets in order even though she has never learnt to read the notations. She does have the presence of mind to muster up a polite smile for Maxwell Wise. “I… It was nice to meet you, sir.”

“And likewise, Miss Martin. I’m sure I’ll see more of you both.” The music producer is watching them with beady eyes, but also manages an indulgent smile. “Have a good evening with your better half, Shane.”

“She definitely is.” Shane murmurs, and links their fingers together, right to left. He doesn’t let go of her until they’re seated at their table at the restaurant. Annette curls her hand up into a loose fist in her lap as the waitress comes to take their order, to preserve something of the warmth of his touch.

***

The wedding itself is outdoors, in a gazebo lush with green vegetation and pink plumeria, overlooking white sand and cerulean water. Though Shane plays a very traditional, classical repertoire of Pachelbel’s Canon followed by Wagner’s Bridal March, the brides themselves are breezy, radiantly beautiful and anything but stodgy. Cameron, Jordan and the other men in the wedding party are in fairly traditional black tuxedos, but Hayley’s rocking a suit of sapphire. Meara wears a flowy white dress and no veil, but fragrant flowers crown her long, perfectly beachy hair. The bridesmaids, some of whom are Hayley’s colleagues at her law firm, are in filmy blue chiffon like a sunlit ocean. 

Cameron, as Best Man, escorts the maid of honour-- Meara’s successor as the current concertmaster of the NYPO, down the aisle just before Meara makes her way to the front, escorted by a rather good-looking man who looked too young to be her father.

“Gosh, she looks just like the flower crown filter come to life,” Maralynn enthuses to Rebecca, who is sitting next to her. 

“If you say so… I’m more amazed by the fact that she’s being walked down the aisle by Joshua Bell. Because that guy is _Joshua Bell_.” Rebecca stares in fascination as Meara hands off her bouquet to her maid of honour and takes Hayley’s hands. “He has a Grammy and I think an Oscar nomination.”

“Now that I think about it, there are a lot of famous people here from that industry,” Maralynn whispers back. “Well, she _is_ kind of a big deal, isn’t she?”

The officiant for the ceremony steps forward then. She’s a striking, dark-haired woman with an olive complexion and noble, compassionate features. 

“Welcome to all friends, family and guests. We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the marriage of Hayley Tanner and Meara Kyne. They are not, as one may think, beginning new lives together-- so much as embarking upon the next chapter of lives that have always meant to be spent together. In the words of Kahlil Gibran, ‘You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days. Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.’ 

This bond, this commitment, is not made because they have been together for a certain number of days, or because they have passed this milestone or that. This is an affirmation of intent, of love and faithfulness, of not only a willingness, but a joy, to face the rest of their lives together. We are here to bear witness to this progression, this promise. We are here to celebrate not only the love between Hayley and Meara, but between everyone here. We are all lovers, and we are all loved. By our family, or our friends, or our lovers. This is the spirit that brightens the skies and sweetens the air around us, even on cold, rainy days that will inevitably come. Thank you all for being here.”

The officiant continues with the ceremony, and Hayley and Meara make their vows to each other. They’re the definition of a power couple, Maralynn thinks as she watches, rapt. Both of them stunning, and wealthy, and talented. But there’s a quaver of emotion in Hayley’s voice as she promises to love and cherish her bride, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as she shall live. There’s an answering sniffle in Meara’s, before she promises to do the same. They exchange rings and kiss under the glow of the setting sun, holding onto each other for a moment too long. 

Naturally, the crowd goes a bit wild with their applause, and the burst of piano song during the recessional fills the air as the newlywed couple makes their way down the aisle together, Mendelssohn’s solemn melody turned into a shout of triumph. Cameron walks sedately with the maid of honour, holding out his arm for her like a perfect gentleman, but he only has eyes for her as he passes, and their eyes meet at that moment, his gaze softer and warmer than she’d ever seen it. A smile crosses his lips, so fleeting that she _knows_ it’s meant for her and no one else, and her heart is suddenly so full that she barely remembers how, exactly, they wrap up the ceremony and start the reception.

***

The catering staff bring out champagne and delicate canapés: lox and caviar on herbed crostini with a dollop of dilled crème fraîche and capers, mini baked bries _en croûte_ with fig jam, cremini mushroom caps stuffed with crab and pecorino romano. The fancy finger foods are followed by entrees-- a choice of salmon in white wine sauce, pork medallions with tarragon cream, or linguine with pesto, sundried tomatoes and artichokes. A multi-tiered wedding cake is cut and distributed-- snowy chiffon cake enveloped in Bourbon vanilla cream and adorned with an exotic, eye-catching cascade of tropical blooms-- orchids and bougainvillea in shades of ocean blue, birds of paradise and hibiscus golden like the sunset sky. 

Cameron waits until everyone has been served a slice, then taps his fork against his glass for the Best Man’s toast.

"I first met Hayley as a geeky teenager in the pre-law program at Columbia. Econ, Professor Stern, 9am lecture. I knocked her Red Bull off the table and by some miracle, she didn't murder me on the spot." Scattered laughter meets this anecdote, delivered in the dryest of voices. "She probably would have considered it to be bullying, seeing as to how at the time, I was little more than a scrawny kid that she could probably break in half."

"Cameron Malcolm Hayes the Third, I could still break you in half if I wanted to," Hayley quips from her seat, a gleeful smirk on her striking face. 

"Objection. Hearsay, Counselor. But more importantly, she always stood up for the underdog. Those forgotten, those weaker or poorer or less fortunate. I have never known her to be anything less than a strong woman, in court and out of court. Independent, determined, ambitious, tough. I admire her greatly as a colleague and a friend, and have done so since she spared a seventeen-year-old in an Econ lecture from an untimely and ignominious death in front of large numbers of witnesses."

"Well, as you said, witnesses," Hayley grins, her eyes warm even as her fingers link with Meara's. 

"But, I must say, I have never admired her more than today, this morning. She stood up today, in front of everyone here, to make a promise. Not to take care of someone else because they needed her to do so, not to make all the bad things go away. She made a promise to her wife to love her, to be with her through the rest of their days. Hayley doesn't need Meara. Meara doesn't need Hayley. They're both strong, independent, talented and self-sufficient women. A lawyer with her own law firm, a world-famous musician-turned department chair in a university? It doesn’t get more badass, rock-star, power couple than that. They choose to be together not through some sense of obligation, or because they are dependent upon the other person in some way. They choose to be together because they love each other. Because just having that other person in your life makes that life a better and brighter one. They don't bring each other resources or assistance or advice at the rate of x dollars per billable hour. They bring each other joy. Brighter days and warmer nights. They made that commitment today, to choose joy, and love, and a shared future. Today, for once, Hayley's greatest strength isn't herself. Or, it's not just herself." 

He pauses, and glances around the room, and though he's still addressing the group at large, his eyes are only for the girl in the gold dress sitting across from him at that table. Maralynn, with her cornsilk hair and brilliant smile, looks rather like a Disney princess come to life, and her blue eyes are warm with love. "It's this promise, this union. It's knowing that she loves, and is loved, and acknowledging it to us all. I don't know what tomorrow may bring you two, but I do know your love will carry you through it all. To my best friend, and the woman she's entrusted with her heart, I wish you the best, always. Cheers."

Applause echoes all across the room, and he takes his seat, waiting for it to settle down. The maid of honor goes next, followed by Hayley’s father and Meara’s mother. The completion of the toasts, of course, signals the start of the dancing, and the soft, crooning strains of Norah Jones’ “Come Away With Me” fill the air as the married couple takes to the floor for their first dance together. 

***

The DJ kicks off the dancing for all the guests with “Get This Party Started” by Pink, and Rebecca watches with not a little amusement as Maralynn all but bounces up from her seat, dragging Cameron with her. He doesn’t quite get into dancing that song with the same enthusiasm as she does, but, bless his heart, he humours her anyway. 

He does, of course, give her a wide berth when “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift comes on a few songs later, but Maralynn is not deterred. Finding a new, semi-more-willing victim in Jordan, she not only dances to it, but belts out the words with great enthusiasm. It’s silly and a spectacle and Rebecca is certain that Maralynn is not truly drunk enough to be doing this, and yet the other girl is doing it anyway, with the pure confidence of someone who simply pursues whatever makes her happy, and that is something Rebecca can respect, perhaps even envy a little bit.

The poppy tunes make way for a slightly more sedate “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles, and she’s only slightly surprised that Cameron asks her for that dance. It’s more along the lines of what he listens to from what she remembers, and yet he, too, has changed subtly since the last summer. His face is still serious, his tux still perfectly pressed and without a single button or cuff out of place despite the lateness of the evening. But there is a quiet sort of contentment in his dark-gray eyes if one knows where to look, and it’s easy, now, to think of him as “Cameron” as opposed to “Mr. Hayes”. 

“You gave a nice toast earlier,” Rebecca tells him as they move to the rhythm of the music. “I don’t suppose I ever thanked you for the reference to work at Hayley’s law firm, did I?”

“No need. I knew you’d be a good fit for it. She has had nothing but good things to say about you since you’ve started.” He smiles, and while it’s certainly not an expression she remembers seeing often, it’s a good look for him. “It’s perhaps not as big or prestigious a firm as your father’s, but they do good work there. I could see you continuing to work there after law school, even.”

Rebecca cracks a smile at that. “You don’t see me working for the State Attorney’s office, then?”

“You could if you wanted to, but I think you’d feel better doing good than punishing evil, if that makes sense.” 

It does, and Rebecca thinks that it’s sort of a sign of how he has changed since last summer. The aloof, intense, workaholic Cameron Hayes, hotshot prosecutor, would never have made such a personal comment to an intern, past or present, back then. The song draws to an end, and she steps back a step, smiling up at him. “Thanks for the dance. Be happy.”

“You, too.”

She turns when there’s a tap on her shoulder, to see Hayley herself standing there just as the opening notes of “Girl On Fire” by Alicia Keys start playing. Hayley manages an elaborate, flourishing sort of bow that has Rebecca’s lips quirking up in amusement.

“I am making it a point to dance with everyone in the firm tonight, and it’s your turn, Becky. Come on.”

The ‘Becky’ moniker could only have come from Jordan’s influence, but she really can’t hate on it. It’s endearing, rather than patronizing, and moreover, Hayley’s grin is practically infectious. She’s Jordan’s older cousin, and in her face, Rebecca sees the hints of resemblance-- perceptive yet kind blue eyes, dimples which would, with age, turn into great laugh-lines, sunny blonde hair which always managed to fall just so over the forehead. She agreeably takes the other woman’s hands and lets herself be pulled in, almost a hug but not quite so.

“How many others do you have left to dance with after me?” 

“Well. Let’s see here… I danced with Blaise first, but that’s because she’s super demanding and gets emotional easily. After that, Adrianna and I jammed out to T-Swift, though we did not quite manage the enthusiasm of Cameron’s girlfriend. I danced with Bee, after that, though she’s technically not part of our infamous Law Firm of BAMFy women, but considering I’ve known her almost as long as I’ve known Adrianna, she might as well be.” Bee was Belinda Sharp, Adrianna’s long-term girlfriend and a sex crimes detective for the local police agency whose work often crossed with theirs when it came to battered wives or abused children. “I have yet to nab Ava, but she’s likely doing something naughty with that husband of hers, so I’ll wait on that one. Then I have all the boys, and my folks, and my darling wife a few more times.”

“So I’m smack dab in the middle. I can live with it.” Rebecca lets her boss give her a twirl with a fair amount of panache. She doesn’t know Hayley all that well, outside of the context of work, but she’s reasonably certain that in social situations that don’t involve lawyering, the other woman has a great deal of charm at her disposal. Much like Jordan, again. “You look very happy. I’m glad.”

“Oh, I’ve been happy for a very long time,” Hayley’s eyes warm, their colour and shape so similar to Jordan’s at that moment that Rebecca’s heart almost skips a beat. “I met her six years ago, after a charity concert she gave to benefit the Boston Marathon Bombing victims. Paganini’s Caprice #24, Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, and an encore of Monti’s Csardas. I don’t remember the weather of that day, or what I ate, or did before I arrived at the Lincoln Center. I remember everything about her, though, from the blue velvet dress she wore to the warmth of her smile. I might well have known, then, that this day would come. When it’s the right person, you just know. It’s just right.”

_A pale blue henley, sleeves rolled up to reveal an eclectic mishmash of tattoos on toned forearms. A bright green uniform apron. A smile full of fun and warmth and a hint of interest. Sunny blond hair._ Rebecca doesn’t know how she is so certain of what, exactly, Jordan was wearing that day half a year ago. She has no real reason to remember, and yet…

“I know,” she says softly. The words-- the exact words are not meant for Hayley. But Hayley, with her typical acumen, understands anyway, and her smile widens as the song draws to a close. 

“I see. And speak of the devil, I see my little cousin walking over. I think a slow song’s coming on, so let me let you go and go dance with my own woman.” She gives Rebecca a brief but tight hug, then pulls back. “Have a good rest of the night, Becky. Thanks for the dance.”

“You’re welcome. And… thanks. For everything.” But Hayley’s already cutting through the crowd, even as Landon Pigg’s “Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop” starts playing. Rebecca raises an eyebrow as Jordan comes to a stop in front of her, and he laughs. 

“I didn’t request it, Becky, but dance with me anyway. We totally cannot let this opportunity go to waste.” His arms close around her back, warm and strong and certain, and she lets the sway and rhythm of the music-- all gentle acoustic guitar and crooning vocals, lull her body as her mind muses over everything.

***

There’s a break in the music and the DJ announces that it’s time for the bouquet toss. As with many weddings, the tossing bouquet is not the same as the one that Meara carried down the aisle-- it’s smaller, more compact, but beautiful nonetheless, fragrant with white jasmine and blue orchids interspersed with silvery-green eucalyptus and tied with white satin ribbons. There’s a sizable contingent of unmarried women standing in a group behind Meara, several of whom are bouncing up and down with quite a bit of enthusiasm as she prepares to throw. Annette is in the group, somewhere in the middle, certainly not jumping up and down like some of the others, and she can barely see over the shoulder of a six-foot raven-haired Amazon in forest green taffeta whom she thought was possibly the plus-one of one of Hayley’s colleagues. 

Meara glances over her shoulder at the group, and smiles serenely even as the cheering and jumping increase to athletic stadium levels as she raises the bouquet over her head. It soars through the air, and the next moment, Annette is shocked to feel a soft, fluttery weight land squarely in her arms. She’s quite certain that she couldn’t have caught it more easily had she been actively trying and it had been aimed directly at her. 

“Girl, hold it up and let everyone see!” The dark-haired Amazon shouts good-naturedly, and before Annette can really even say anything in response, she finds her wrist clasped by the other woman’s hand, bouquet held aloft over her head like a conductor’s baton, and a photographer holding a camera up to her face. And, several feet away, looking equally surprised and ill-at-ease, she meets Shane’s gaze, and blushes so hard that she’s quite certain the very air around her face is hotter than the rest of the room. She can only manage an awkward smile for the camera, then looks away-- at the tall woman next to her, at Maralynn’s gleeful grin and Rebecca’s sympathetic smile, anything but Shane’s piercing eyes. She has no intention of marrying anytime soon; it’s definitely a daunting and incredibly precarious institution that one has no business partaking in unless there is absolute certainty and commitment between the two parties involved. And eternal, unchanging, genuine love, the type where no one had to ever wonder in secret.

She makes her way back towards the table where her seat is, awkwardly holding the flowers and trying not to draw any further attention to herself, but stops in her tracks at the sound of a vaguely familiar voice tinged with a British accent.

“Well, now, it’s lucky that superstition’s nothing but an Old Wives’ Tale, considering how far away you’d be from your lady after you take on my offer.”

Slowly, carefully, she turns around, and sees Shane standing in front of that London music producer from the other night-- Maxwell Wise. Shane has his back turned to her; if she didn’t know him so well, she’d perhaps only be able to recognize him by the unruly dark-gold curls hanging down his back. 

“I’m still thinking about it,” Shane murmurs, and it makes her nervous that she can’t see his face. At this distance, she can’t quite hear any nuances in his voice, but he’s never been able to hide how he feels on his face, in those expressive green eyes. 

“Well, I don’t think there’s much to think about, now is there? You’ve finished school and don’t truly have any commitments locally. Esme isn’t one to make that offer lightly, and she needs no introduction. To tour as part of her band would be phenomenal. The salary alone is very nice indeed, but she’s set to break records with her tour next year, playing with some of the biggest names in the industry. You have that pizzazz, that look, that you could easily make it with a pop group even if that’s not your usual thing, and besides, who doesn’t want to be a millionaire before you’re even thirty? It’d be the stepping stone you need for real fame before striking out on your own. You’re a talented player and a brilliant composer, and it could bring your work the recognition you deserve in a matter of a year or two.”

Shane mumbles something too low for her to catch, but perhaps Maxwell Wise is a great deal more shrewd than she might give him credit for, because he lets out a hearty sort of chuckle and glances straight at her before looking away again to focus his attention on Shane. 

“If you’re worried about the relocation, not to fret. There are loads of decent flats in the greater London area nowadays, and we’ve always been top-notch about getting our people taken care of. You’re not close to your family-- you’ve said so to me yourself. There’s really nothing to keep you here, now is there?”

_Nothing to keep you here._ It seems so stark, almost casually cruel, the way the producer says it. Annette finds, much to her consternation, that she’s suddenly fighting tears-- tears that she has no earthly reason to shed. She doesn’t want to bear witness to this-- to Shane doing what any reasonable person would encourage him to do. She’d likely tell him to take the offer, herself, and might even still do it, because he deserves that chance as a reward for all the work he’s put in. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a devastating blow. 

_Everyone leaves, eventually._ She’d known this, always. And it’s been a great reminder for her to keep people at arms’ length. But somehow, despite her best efforts to do so here, even the thought of it is excruciating. She sets the bouquet down at a table at random and makes a barely-dignified dash for the ladies’ restroom. She doesn’t generally wear makeup, and that is certainly a point in her favour right now, but no matter what, come hell or high water, Shane must _not_ , under any circumstance, see so much as a hint that she might have been crying. 

***

Rebecca is seated on the bed, wearing one of his t-shirts and with the covers over her long, slim legs when Jordan finally returns to the hotel room, her face soft and makeup-free, her dark hair still damp from the shower. She’s fiddling with her phone, likely sending all types of photos of the wedding and reception to Melia and Noel back on campus, but looks up with a faint smile when he walks in. She’d returned to the room a good hour and a half ago, and had taken the time to change out of the formal dress, take her hair out of its elaborate updo, shower and wash her face. She looks no less beautiful, though.

Jordan had ditched the suit jacket a while back, and drapes it over the back of the chair before getting to work on the vest and tie. “Did you have fun?” he asks as he strips down to his shirt-sleeves and undoes the cufflinks. A cheeky grin flashes at the corners of his lips for a moment. “I mean, probably not as much fun as Maralynn. Though she did do a fairly fabulous sing-along of Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Off’.”

“I don’t think anyone was quite on her level,” Rebecca says wryly, then meets his smile with one of her own. She’s not one to smile very frequently, or when she doesn’t mean it, so he treasures these moments when she’s unguarded and content and almost docile. “But yes, I did enjoy myself a great deal. It was a beautiful ceremony and reception. I’m very happy for Hayley and Meara, and they both looked radiant, didn’t they? I… I know they’ll be very happy together.”

He sets the cufflinks in their box and sits down to take off his shoes. “Yeah, I think so. They couldn’t be more perfect for each other, really. I thought so the first time I met Meara, when she and Hayley first started dating.”

“You know, when I danced with Hayley earlier, she said the same thing,” Rebecca murmurs, glancing up at him through her criminally long eyelashes. “She… she said that she’d always known they’d be married, sooner or later. That when you love someone that way, you just know.” Her voice is quiet and almost even, retaining its customary smoothness as though through instinct and willpower. “It’s a huge commitment, of course, and I’m sure a lot of work. Not to mention how scary it is to put yourself into the hands of one person-- to trust someone that much with all of your heart, and all of your happiness-- forever, not knowing what could happen tomorrow or a month or a decade from now. You just go for it and believe in the idea that everything will be fine and nothing could ever go wrong.” Now, her words are coming quickly, almost tripping over each other in their haste to get out, and her slim fingers are unceasing as they wring the counterpane into a wrinkled mess. “I… I know that forever isn’t always forever, and things don’t always end well, and it’s not even necessarily anyone’s fault, sometimes, when that happens. And to love someone, and commit, and just _believe_ , not knowing, is kind of terrifying.” 

Jordan’s hands had been halfway to unlooping his belt, but that’s long been forgotten. She’s not quite meeting his eyes, her gaze alternating between the bedsheets and a point over his shoulder. She takes a quick, unsteady little breath, then bites her bottom lip. “I want you to know, I’ve never been so scared. Not ever, in my life. And I don’t think I could be this scared, if it weren’t for you.”

He doesn’t quite feel his feet cross the carpeted floor of the room, but he’s seated on the edge of the bed, tipping her face up with his hand, before he’s even registered that he’d moved. Now those beautiful, amethyst eyes of hers meet his, still nervous behind that fringe of black lashes, but determined to finish and own up to her words and meet his gaze head-on. “I understand what Hayley means, though, I do. You… you told me a few days ago that you loved me, and that I didn’t owe you anything for it. I feel like I owe you honesty, though, at the very least. I love you, too.” Her voice is little more than a whisper, but these words-- these words he would’ve been able to hear-- to _feel_ \-- across a crowded room. “I love you so much. I thought you should know.”

He has her face tilted up, and never before has he quite realized how familiar every bit of it has become to him-- the faint upward slant of her eyes, the delicate shape of her nose and lips, the slightly haughty cheekbones. His Becky isn’t particularly expressive-- one must learn to interpret the myriad subtly different arches of her fine brows rather than expect rollicking laughter or stormy tears-- but he’s learning the unspoken language of her, more fluently every day. He knows just how much making a confession such as this costs her, and when he opens his mouth, he’s completely unsurprised to find that his voice isn’t quite steady, either. “I know I said that you didn’t owe me anything, but you don’t know what it means to hear you say that. And I’d tell you that you don’t ever need to be scared, when it comes to me, but you have a right to your feelings, always.” His fingers tangle in her hair and he bends his head to brush a tender kiss over her forehead, then her mouth. She leans up, then, and meets him halfway. 

They’ve had sex before, back on campus at her place, and at his, and even one memorable occasion at her father’s house, trying to keep quiet in a fancy guest bedroom just down the hall from far too many other sleepers. For a fairly reticent girl in many respects, Rebecca is reasonably progressive when it comes to this, and he’d spent hours getting to know her intimately-- the way her breath catches when he traces the long, elegant line of her neck with his mouth, down to exquisite collarbones and flawless breasts, the faint pleasure-pain of her manicured nails digging into his shoulders and back in the heat of the moment, the texture and taste of her skin, dampened with sweat and arousal. Now he holds her as she sleeps, after nothing more than a few kisses, still wearing his forgotten tuxedo pants and shirt. She buries her face into the crook of his neck and curls her fingers up in a loose fist over the heartbeat in his chest that perfectly echoes her own, and it feels more close and intimate than anything he has done with anyone. 

***

It’s some indecent hour of morning when Shane finally returns to the hotel room, and he takes care to be very quiet. Annette, unlike himself, is not much of a night owl. Surely by now, she’s asleep, likely leaving on one light so that he could see. She’d be curled up on her side, long lashes resting against pale cheeks, peaceful and quiet and beautiful as the first clean snowfall of winter. He’d pull the blanket up higher, because she always seemed to run slightly cool, and hope that his fingers wouldn’t tremble when they brushed against her skin and wake her. This-- this yearning for her was getting ridiculous. He really did have to say something to her, and soon, before he completely lost his mind. If only he had a clue of how she felt.

She’d caught the bouquet, and promptly looked so shocked and embarrassed that any courage that he might have had to say something-- when such a serendipitous opportunity had presented itself, after all-- vanished. Annette was not really one who enjoyed being the center of attention, and would have disliked being put on the spot at that point in time. So he had simply looked away awkwardly, and gone back to talking with the various new music industry acquaintances he’d made through the course of the week. He’d felt her glance his way a few times throughout the course of the evening, but that was before Maxwell Wise had dropped his ticking time bomb of an offer.

To Shane’s surprise, the lights are all on when he unlocks the room door. Annette is sitting bolt upright in his bed, still wearing the dress from the reception, the bouquet a fragrant bundle of white jasmine and blue orchids in her lap. She looks up when he walks in, and her lips curve up in what he’s sure she means to be a smile, but the corners of her mouth quiver, and those beautiful blue eyes of hers-- always solemn-- are downright bleak. Bereft. 

She speaks, though, hurriedly, before he can say anything, fingers fiddling with a bit of shirring on her dress until it’s a crimpy mess. “You-- you’ll be incredibly successful, I just know it. In London.”

“In London?” He parrots back at her, taking a seat on that bed in front of her, not so close that he’d be tempted to touch her. “Oh, you mean Maxwell Wise’s offer?”

“Of course I do.” She picks up the bouquet, sniffs the flowers deeply, and he can hear the break in her breathing. “You deserve it. He’s the real deal. I googled him when I got back here, I’ll admit. He’ll do wonders for your career. He thinks you’re, and I quote, ‘the next Lang Lang’. I googled him, too. He’s very famous.”

At this distance, he can hear the hitch of unsteady breaths and unshed tears in her voice, and his hands itch at the sheer effort it takes not to reach for her. “You want me to go to London, Annette?” he finally settles for asking. 

She swallows, and her hands shake as they very carefully move the bouquet in her lap to the nightstand. Almost as though she didn’t trust herself not to mangle the beautiful flowers to bits with her fiddling. “It would be a great opportunity.” The words are spoken almost steadily, but her eyes are fixed on the counterpane. 

Suddenly, he can’t stand it anymore. Not this thick, tense purgatory that they’re in, not the fact that his-- _his_ beautiful, forthright, brainy Annette can’t seem to meet his eyes right now. He scoots closer, and now it’s his fingers that shake as they brush her cheek. It’s damp, just the slightest bit, from a tear or two that had escaped even her strict self control, and he tilts her face up so that their eyes meet, and even before she says anything else, he can read it in her gaze.

_Don’t leave me. Please stay._ She mouths an inaudible ‘no’, but it’s swallowed by his own lips and a sense of sheer relief. He’d imagined kissing her before, of course. Too many times to count. This wasn’t smooth, practiced. It was a bit clumsy and more than a little desperate on both their ends, but she slides her fingers through his hair, pulls him closer, and for all her delicate beauty, her hands are strong and sure and no longer shaky as they settle-- one at his nape, the other on his shoulder. She’s not hesitant or unsure about this, not in the least, and even when the need for breath pulls their lips apart, he doesn’t pull completely away. Her cheeks are bright red with a blush and her eyes are shiny and wet with relief and something else, something that thrills him. 

“I wouldn’t have stopped you, if you wanted to go,” she says finally, though her hands still linger by his face. Her fingers card through his hair with infinite gentleness. “I will always support what makes you happiest. I hope you know that.” 

“I hope you do,” he finds it in himself to smile, even though his voice is grave as a wedding vow. “Because… it’s you.” For a shy girl, she makes no move whatsoever to leave his arms, and he marvels just a bit at how well her curves fit against his edges. “I actually got another offer,” he whispers, breath stirring the soft hair at her temple. “The maid of honour, Daniela Comeau, is the concertmaster of the NYPO. Her husband’s the director of the Pre-College Division at Juilliard, and he has an opening on the piano faculty. They want to expand the offerings in the Music Technology Center. I accepted. Manhattan’s not far. Especially compared to London.”

Annette doesn’t smile that often, but when she does, it’s a wondrous thing. He has one moment to bask in it, really, before she nuzzles her face against his again. A soft brushing kiss against his jaw. His heartbeat is almost thumping out of his chest. “I felt so selfish, you know, for not wanting you to go. For wanting to be more important than fame and fortune.”

_For wanting someone to love me more than my father did_. She doesn’t say it, of course, but he can read the underlying, silent message. A wave of tenderness washes over him, and he lies down, fully dressed and over the covers, and pulls her close. She curls up against his side like she was born to be there, and he thinks, whimsically, maybe now she won’t feel so embarrassed about catching that bouquet. “Well, I suppose you should know that without you, there’d be no fame or fortune, anyway. Anyone can be a decent piano player. But… my heart wouldn’t be in it, without you.”

***

“I think it’s unfair how Cammy can get his tar-water triple espresso whatever whatever anywhere he goes, but not all coffeeshops can make what I want, but it’s okay, because we’ll be back in town tomorrow!” 

“Most airport restaurants, even those that are part of big chain corporations, have limited facilities and extra strenuous rules to work around. TSA and Customs/Border Patrol regulations mean, also, that a lot of restaurants have to follow some fairly strict protocol in terms of what can and cannot be had in their inventory, stock, and machines and tools. You wouldn’t want someone to sneak into the back of a place, make out with a knife or hide in some drugs, now would you?” 

Maralynn pouts exaggeratedly at where he is sitting, then turns back to the facetime screen on her iPad. “And no one asked him to be all sane and smart and logical about it, you know?” she whines to Melia. But as usual, her smile reappears mere moments later. “We had a _great_ time. The wedding was beautiful-- which of course you know because I sent you all the pictures already-- and it was wonderful to meet all these great new people! OH! And I bought presents for you guys! Chocolate covered macadamia nuts and Kona coffee for you and Noel, and the cutest little Hawaiian shirt for Arty! I got Cammy a Hawaiian shirt, too, but he has yet to wear it.”

“I think it will be a cold day in Hell before Cameron can be induced to wear a Hawaiian shirt,” Melia’s voice sounds dryly through the iPad’s speaker. “For that matter, same goes for your dastardly white furbaby. Did I tell you, he slept on top of the crockpot the other night? That’s got to be hideously uncomfortable.”

“It was probably warm and smelled good and that’s all that matters.” Maralynn says complacently. “Anyway, like I was telling you before, I really do think that Annette and Shane are actually dating for real, finally. They’re both kind of tight-lipped people, you know, but it’s the little things. They stand closer when they walk, and hold hands, and both of them look so gorgeous and happy it gives me the warm fuzzies deep down inside. Everyone’s happy and life is beautiful.”

She goes on to chatter about the rest of the group of people-- both ones she’d already known and ones she’d met and befriended on this trip, for another few minutes as she finishes whatever sugary concoction the airport Starbucks did end up making for her, even as Cameron finishes his own Americano and puts away his work laptop. There’s a backlog of quite a few emails and the like from work that he’s mostly put off on this trip, and he’d been systematically tackling it at the airport terminal. When she’d appeared next to him with two cups of coffee with that telltale green logo, he’d been stupidly touched, even though it doesn’t precisely come as a surprise. Her thoughtfulness with the little things is always done so blithely, so casually that it’s easy to overlook, and yet…

Perhaps she feels his eyes on her, because she bids a chirpy farewell to Melia and shuts down her iPad, then looks up at him, all soft blue eyes and a beautiful soul, and it’s almost full circle. A girl in a coffee shop whose smile lights up the room. And he realizes that despite the fact that they’re not doing anything in particular at that moment outside of living their lives-- work, friends, coffee orders, traveling and anything and everything in between, the major difference between how his life was before he met her and now is actually really simple. He’s just _happier_. Even when they’re sitting in uncomfortable chairs at an airport waiting to board a plane. His hand finds hers, both of their palms warm from the paper cups, and he gives her hand a squeeze. It’s her left, currently adorned with a bracelet made of shells that she’d bought at one of the ABC stores ubiquitous to Hawaii, and plumeria-pink nails. Someday, he’d get her a ring. Something unique and perhaps colourful, something different and more meaningful than the typical diamond solitaire. 

The indrawn breath is soft, not quite steady, and he realizes belatedly that maybe he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, or maybe he just can’t hide his feelings and emotions around her at all. For all that they’re different on paper, it’s as though she knows him almost better than he knows himself. He lifts his eyes slowly, from her slim fingers to the smooth skin of her throat that quivers with an unsteady swallow, then finally up into her face. Her lips quiver just the tiniest bit, but they’re smiling. 

“If you do… someday, I’ll say yes.” 

Then she’s kissing him, impulsive and sweet and a little bit nervous and more than a little bit loving, and both of them taste like coffee.


End file.
